


Truce

by romanticalgirl



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-20
Updated: 2006-11-20
Packaged: 2017-12-05 13:09:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Surrender.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truce

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/profile)[**inlovewithnight**](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/) for the beta. Look, [](http://nolivingman.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://nolivingman.livejournal.com/)**nolivingman**! 
> 
> Originally posted 11-20-06

“Oh…Gods.” Lancelot groans as he hits the tree hard, the fire and fury of the girl in front of him sparking laughter inside of him, tumbling past his lips. “I don’t break so easily, girl.”

“You.” She snarls and shoves at him again then backs away out of his reach. She paces the small clearing like a wild animal, her breath sending plumes of smoke in the cold air. “I hate you.”

He raises an eyebrow and brushes off his arm, sending splinters of bark to the ground. “Really? I don’t care enough to hate you.”

“Liar.” She turns on him again, all flash and brilliance, her teeth bared like a warrior, like a dog. “You care enough. Not about me, but about him.”

“You know nothing about me or about him, girl. Don’t pretend to think otherwise.” He meets her defiant gaze and shakes his head, his own lip curled in a matching snarl. “Just because you can get him between your thighs, it does not mean you have any claim to him, any ownership of him. He is his own man.”

“And you are his?”

His hand is at her throat before she can move, before she can react. He lifts her off the ground, her light weight balanced on the tips of his fingers digging into her jaw. “Careful, girl. Your death is one twist away.”

“You deny it? Deny that you bend your will to his? Deny you bare your neck? Deny you…” She swallows hard against his grip, her voice faded slightly from the pressure of his hand. “Submit?”

He shoves her away and watches her sprawl across the ground, her gown riding up across her lean thighs. “What I do, girl,” he straddles her, squatting down to look into her flashing green eyes, “is none of your business.”

“It is if you do it with Arthur.”

“You’ve fucked him, girl. You don’t own him yet.” He straightens, standing over her. He presses his boot to the inside of her thigh and moves it, leaving gritty dirt and mud on her clean flesh. “And no matter what you do with him or to him? You never will.”

“Why not? Because you’ve not managed it?”

“Because your land and your cause will always, always fall second to Arthur’s God. And even your sweet smelling sex won’t change that.” He presses harder to her thigh, leaving the mark of his boot against her skin. He wonders vaguely if it will bruise, hopes it will. “So think on that when you sheath his sword in you.”

“Just because you haven’t managed to buy your freedom with your…talents, do not think I am so weak as you.”

“My talents,” he sneers the words around the dark smile, “go against everything his God has taught him, girl. He gave up that much for me. Do not expect more.”

She gets to her feet as he walks away, her voice a sharp echo in his ears. “For me, he gave up Rome.”

**

He feels her tracking him, senses the point of an arrow at his back. They will not leave wounds that show, but her sharp words cut as deeply as his and he can almost taste the blood on his tongue. Night is about to fall, and with it they’ll be left to call a truce or forge a perimeter against one another. He’s not sure which is safer, not sure he trusts her not to sink those sharp teeth into his neck and taste his blood for real.

Knows he doesn’t trust himself not to do the same.

She hits him hard and low, sending him tumbling to the ground. He spins quickly, his boot catching her jaw and turning her head with a sharp snap of her teeth. He sees the pain in her eyes and revels in it for the few seconds of time he has before she’s on him again. Her body is deceptively light as she pins him, hands at junctures where he is weakest, her knees digging into the tender flesh of his upper thighs.

He laughs, husky and hot, battle firing in his blood. “No truce then tonight?”

She kisses him, her mouth hot and open on his. Her hands coil around his arms, holding him down with will and passion and determination fueling her weaker strength. She bites at him, drawing blood from his lips, from his tongue and his sharp teeth do the same, giving everything he gets back in spades.

With a hard shift, he rolls over onto her, her gown already pushed up, revealing her still dirty thighs, the leather thong she uses to shield her sex. He tugs at it, pushing it aside to allow his fingers entrance, two hard and deep inside her in a single thrust. She cries out, head falling back, body arching up and he uses his fingers mercilessly, lowering his head to bite at her breasts through the thin fabric she wears.

She curses him in her native tongue, sharp invectives that are deflected away by the huskiness of her voice, the need that seeps into the words. He slides another finger in and coats it in her wetness, his thumb moving up to circle the hard nub above her entrance, to steal control away from her with strokes and pressure. He can sense her close, feeling the thrum of blood and the tightening of her muscles and permits himself a smile.

Pain blinds his vision, the rock breaking skin as she slams it against his temple. His cry echoes a wounded animal and he falls away from her, his hand staunching the flow of blood. It is his turn to curse her, his own language falling off his tongue in fevered waves as she stands and kicks him in the chest, lowering herself onto him. She reaches up and knocks his hand away, her thumb digging into the bleeding. He bares his teeth at her and snaps, feral and cornered as she presses harder. His vision goes white and then black as she lowers her mouth to his, her tongue lapping at his parted lips.

It is a wolf licking his wounds, but he cannot help but give in, opening his mouth to her questing tongue. She laps at his mouth, tasting and teasing as her free hand snakes between them, undoing his laces, fingers digging into flesh as she works them loose, leather singing against leather. He reaches up and grabs her hand, jerks it away from his temple, knocking her support from beneath her and bringing her hard against his chest. He kisses her in earnest, one hand snaking up to tangle in her long, windblown hair.

She breaks the kiss not long after, using both her hands to shift his leathers, to expose him to the cooling night air in the slight drafts that managed to steal between their bodies. Her gown rides high against her thighs as she sinks down on him, closing her eyes as she ensconces herself around him.

He grasps her hips, driving upward inside her. He can feel the grit and dirt on her thighs from earlier as he lets his hands drift southward, his thumbs brushing the hardened muck off her skin. She laughs roughly, a thick, throaty chuckle that sets his teeth and he lets his thumb dig into her skin, marking her hard, wanting the blue-black stain of a bruise on her pale, perfect skin.

Her laughter turns to a growl and she grabs his hands, slamming them down to the ground beside his head, her nails digging into his wrists. “I am not yours,” she practically purrs, the sounds racing along his spine. “Not yours to have, yours to mark.”

He breaks her grip and catches her wrists, his fingers circling them easily, grinding bone against fragile bone. He brings her hands to her waist, holds them there, holds her immobile. “All I see is my mark on you, girl. My teeth in your flesh. My hands on your skin. My cock in your cunt. There’s no part of you that is not mine.”

“Your marks mean nothing, knight. They’re as fleeting as you, and they’ll be gone in the morning, just like you.”

He shoves her off of him, watching her scurry backwards on her hands and heels, her eyes wild as he stands and advances. He kicks her legs apart and falls to his knees between them, pushing them wider. “These will not be gone by tomorrow. Every bruise and every mark, every ache under your skin will linger. You’re mistaken if you think you can forget me so easily, girl.”

“So much like a Roman, aren’t you? Take whatever you want?”

“I only take what wants me back.” He kneels again at her feet, stretching out along the length of her and tugging the thong aside again, his tip of his tongue painting the wet flesh. “Tell me, girl.” He rubs the nub of flesh with his tongue, teases it with his teeth. “Tell me you don’t want me.”

She shudders against him, her legs spreading wider. “I hate you.”

He crawls up her body, pushing her gown higher to expose creamy flesh, to taste the muscles surface of her stomach. “Then say no. Say stop.”

Her legs wind around him, jerking his body close. “Now.”

He obliges her easily, thrusting into her, filling her. Every stroke is hard and vicious, claiming and possessive. She meets him thrust for thrust, pulling him deeper, arms and legs imprisoning him as the walls of her body close around him. “Mine,” he growls against her neck, licking salt and sweat and hatred from her skin. She shakes her head, her hair whipping against him, denying him even as her body tightens, convulses and floods him with heat.

He pulls away from her after securing his own release, pumping his seed inside her with two hard, heavy thrusts. She shudders against the ground, dirt in her hair, on her face, against her skin. He gets to his feet and looks down at her, a hard, cutting smile on his face. “You are mine, girl.” His booted foot fits at the crux of her thighs, toeing at her wet flesh. “Pity I don’t want you.”


End file.
